A Cog in the Prophet's Machine
by JcDent
Summary: From the First Tiberium War to the Ascension Conflict, can a simple trooper survive the clash of superpowers and an alien invasion? Most probably and with some humor to boot! This is the story of one of the Brotherhood's Light Infantry blokes, from his humble beginnings to... whatever the future holds for him. Follows closely the canon of Tiberian Sun!
1. Chapter 1: The humblest of beginnings

Chapter 1: The humblest of beginnings

Everyone remembers where they were when they blew up Temple Prime. Even I do, though I was of the age when you sometimes forget the difference between pants and a toilet. The years of the First Tiberium War did not wipe away all the comforts of civilization. Since the last Soviet-Allied war we had built extensive TV networks, advanced telecommunications into undreamed heights. There was even this peculiar Internet thing making careful forays into everyday lives of people everywhere. And as Brotherhood of Nod used the Net to spread its word, so did GDI stream the destruction of Kane. For it was a great celebration to the wealthy and well off people who were taken under the golden wing of the Falcon. At the same, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth among the poor and the oppressed that rallied under the black banner of the Scorpion. No matter who you were back then, it was something that you would never forget.

I sure didn't even though, as I said, I was just a wee tike way back then. Just another Nod war orphan, one of the countless that were robbed of their parents by the GDI. What little rumors I remember said that my parents were a pair of Nod technicians that died when an air raid blew up a power plant. I don't know and neither does the Brotherhood – many records were lost during the war and the confusion of the following years. Nobody knew when or where I was born, either, or even my real name. Some nurse named me Vlad after her grandfather. She thought it was fitting, since he had been a mechanic once and rumours about my unfortunate parents being what they were… At any rate, Vlad the Orphan spent his childhood in orphanages, often on the road when the last place of residence was compromised by war or something else.

On the day when GDI blasted (or so they thought) Kane with an ion cannon strike, we were playing football – the poor kids' version of it, with ball being the most important entity and "kick the ball" being the sole rule. The orphanage was quite nice, unscarred neither by war nor Tiberium, sturdy building surrounded by a grassy yard. Throw in a tree worthy of a tree fort and you would have The Best Orphanage Ever. But since we didn't have tree to risk breaking our young necks in, a sizeable mob of children were chasing the poor ball, much like a junior league of ancient celtic football. Faces were dirty, standart Nod overalls – Nod was hard on providing standard, durable clothing – stained with grass. Fun – and quite a bit of turf – was in the air.

Small wonder that we did not notice it when nurse Agnieszka entered the yard. The children didn't use to mind the adults anyway – unless they came calling for dinner or bearing gifts (or the occasional reprimand). I saw how she leaned, limply, against the wall, but paid no mind to it – this was what the adults did when they came out to smoke one of their foul smelling "sigrets" and I was a bit too young and far too taken in by football to read body language. Now, when she slumped to the ground and hugged her knees, that was something new. A few of us lost interest in the ball – caused a few high speed tyke collisions, that – the few, slow gears grinding in our heads. We went to Agnieszka, only a few first, the others joining us later on. The nurse was sobbing lightly, but no matter – a crying adult was A Big Thing in any case. Probably something extremely bad, like rats eating our beds or the dinner being burnt (we weren't the brightest bunch of kids). Some of the girls hugged her, this being the natural instinct in the case of emergency. The boys looked and waited, some pondering the mystery with fingers deep in their noses. The nurse mumbled something we didn't make out, something about stuff being "over" and "gone".

Luckily enough, before the smaller ones started crying because, hey, if someone is crying, so should they, other nurses came out. A pair of them stood Agnieszka on her feet, huged her over the shoulders and led inside. One other stayed and, composing herself the best she could, told us that Kane, our prophet and leader, was dead. We understood that it was Bad, but only in that vague sense that adults claim something is Bad. It wasn't something we could fully understand, appreciate and be depressed about. Nevertheless, the nurse assured us that everything would be OK – this was always said after Bad happened, unless we were to blame for it – and that they would take care of us. She also told us that we should probably expect to move in the near future and that we should, just in case, keep all of our things near us. This was the sort of Bad that we, the orphans, not only understood, but were used to. So we did not cry and, I guess, some started rehearsing their best "are we there yet" lines.

Sure enough, in the next few days a convoy came for us. First came the light tanks – Bradleys that we came to know and love from the Nod toy lines (back in the day the Brotherhood was still part corporation and produced, among other thing, toys, so that we could be victorious against GDI in the battlefields of our beds and room floors) – flanked by technicals. They were guarding huge ("awesome" in Small Boy) Russian trucks that would soon be loaded with the mass of children. And we set off into the sunset.

The years after the war passed with even more travelling. Our shelters would be constantly compromised by the GDI or the forces of the local governments. We slept in trucks as much as we did in normal beds and probably visited the better part of Eastern Europe. Nod orphans became the snotty and dirty modern gypsies.

Some respite came when one Brotherhood engineer observed that it would be easier to hide from areal patrols if our settlements were, you know, underground. I imagine that it led to many a startled look and slapped forehead among his compatriots. After that, Nod sympathizers started to slowly but surely build underground shelters. There were less of the faithful than during the war – the battles had culled the heard somewhat, with quite a bit falling away after the prophet died or during the peace time skirmishes – but others just muttered "Kane lives in death" and gripped their shovels harder, all under the command of leaders like Slavic and Hassan.

It was quite the occasion, to enter a fully functioning underground settlement for the first time. Our convoy – just a few trucks, since they were less suspicious than armored columns – stopped at a farm. It had fields on one side, a forest on the other. The Balkan mountains were looming in the distance. A farmer came, smoking a cigarette and carrying a rifle on his shoulder. He led us to a huge barn – a hangar, some would say - where he kept his heavy duty equipment, like drone tractors, drone harvesters (" and my wife, too", - added the farmer) and such. The floor was plain concrete, but a slab of it slid away, revealing a gentle slope downwards. The trucks went into the darkness of tunnels – the sudden lack of light scared the little ones and challenged the teens to pretend they're not scared the least. Happy 15th birthday, Vlad.

As a present, I got a semblance of a normal life – if your notion of "normal life" includes living underground. Not that we missed the sun or the sky much – there were no miniature ion storms nor, more importantly, GDI flights in our cavern. The top most floor was given to the motor pool, where the mechanics tended rugged old trucks, jeeps, a few ageing buggies and even an unarmed recon bike – the prize and pride of the head mechanic. The living quarters were under the motor pool and encompassed housing, a small aid station and a hall that was used as a makeshift class or a chapel. Even deeper were the support systems and, later on, a hydroponic garden.

Everyone living there had to help in one way or another, so I became a mechanic's apprentice. I figured it was just a tad more glamorous than cleaning, washing or any other such nonsense. Therefore I would spend most of the time after our classes elbows deep in motor oil and engines. Being associated with the tough and gruff mechanics didn't hurt my reputation among other teens either. And fixing the girls' shower netted me some points with the fairer sex. Those I cashed in with one of the washing girls – fittingly enough, on top of a pile of dirty overalls. I had some cross-training from a technician, a veteran engineer from the First Tiberium War, which helped my standing even more. It became quite natural to be pulled from the class by one mechanic or another and taken, as help, to some small Nod outpost or settlement that had stuff in need of fixing.

"Someday, Vlad, they might find a way to fix cars with tanks and flying robots, but today we do it with a plasma torch and wrench", - Georgi told me after he was done "checking" the produce from a still he had installed in an M113 husk near the farm.

And while we still had internet and satellite connection, I was one of the rare younglings to regularly go outside – the ones doing manual labor in the farm didn't count because most of what they saw was dirt. I got to see other, much more interesting things: mutant outcasts, the distant glow of Tiberium fields, GDI planes felled by ion storms (always a joyous find), the crumbling of the local governments and even girls from other settlements.

I was barely 18 years old when we went to help one outlying farming community. They were constructing new buildings, ones resistant to the ravages of the Tiberium altered weather patterns. So we, the veteran technician and I, loaded our equipment to a buggy and rode there. The settlement was wall and surrounded by fields from three sides. The road leading to the gate went through the remains of a bombed out village – it's here that the present inhabitant salvaged the materiel for their housing.

A builder drone – obviously salvaged from an MCV – was on the fritz and in dire need of a technician's attention. We fixed it up pretty quick and in return got as many potatoes as our buggy could safely (using a very liberal description of "safe") carry back. We also got invited to the communal dinner, were we enjoyed a hearty meal and the local specialty – bean beer. I don't know if it was, actually, the best beer ever made from materials not fit for beer, or that I was young and inexperienced, but I enjoyed it a whole lot. And then the alarm bell rang.

We rushed to the gate to see what's what. A column was approaching – as far as I could count, there were three old, battered Humvees (with strips of metal bolted on for protection), an M113 and, bloody hell, a harvester.

This was the military force of some local bigshot who probably got hit over the head with a history book and fancied himself a feudal lord. He and his band of thugs – voluntary citizen militia, he called them, though the only place that would provide these militia men citizenship was, probably, a prison – strong armed smaller villages and hamlets even before. But somehow they found an abandoned GDI outpost – the Initiative was notorious for leaving stuff just lying around when they got bored and left – and brought the vehicles there back to life, as well as captured a sizeable amount of ageing small arms. In fact, the harvester was now open topped, with a machinegun crowning the drivers cabin and the cargo compartment refit to carry the troops. All this, they thought, was enough to go against the forces of the Brotherhood (somehow, the would-be warlord was aware of Nod's infighting while we knew of no such thing).

And so these brave men wanted to collect a tithe – for protection, you see. The villagers might have agreed to it – hydroponic harvests were becoming actual harvests – but the tithe included a round or two with village's girls. For RnR and to raise the morale of troops, you see, so that they would be better and bolder in the fight to protect the defenseless villagers. You see.

The village elder notified the nearest Nod outpost via his com-bead, gave a silent order to arm ourselves and began stalling the bandits the best a bureaucrat could – with lengthy speeches. The "militia", used to the rants and ramblings of their boss, took some sweet time to realize that we were pooling wool over their eyes. By the time everyone fit to fight – this included me, apparently, - was holding their own piece of historic First Tiberium War weaponry. Or, in my case, a locally made AK, since you could build those things out of a shovel and trade them for beer. By the time the frugal general had shown his displeasure by our firm denial and went back to one of the Humvees to "command" the battle, we had already taken positions and trained out sights on the militiamen below.

This initially helped us when the first bullets started flying, but, in the end, it was a military Charlie Foxtrot (nobody ever told who that was or what he did to gain such infamy) – a force, trained in spooking peasants by rattling guns and other methods of abusing the meek and weak, assaulting a (somewhat) fortified position, held by people who somehow managed to nail down the "point and shoot" part of infantry combat and only had the vaguest notions such advanced maneuvers like "cover", "covering fire", "short, controlled bursts"…

Our technician was the sole military veteran in our midst. Even though most of his war experience was ducking bullets while running towards the enemy power plant, he was the one that hatched the plan that saved the day, kind of. Predictably, the harvester led the spearhead, its claws acting like a battering ram to smash the gate. The open cargo compartment was filled with troops that would continue the advance once inside the perimeter. Whoever thought of this figured himself quite smart and in his hubris overlooked a small detail. The troop compartment lacked a roof – which, by the looks of things, was used to reinforce the frontal armor of both the harvester and the M113 APC.

So, once the ghetto ram was under the wall, the technician, hiding on the top of the gate, threw down his greatest concoction: Nod hillbilly Molotov. One part oil, one part local potato whiskey (I swear, those villagers…), mixed in a clay jar and topped by a drenched overall sleeve – which, like in any good Molotov cocktail, was on fire. The jar shattered on the head of the harvester's machinegunner and the fluid soaked the men behind him. They caught fire, to be sure, and scrambled madly towards the exit at the back of the truck. This meant that the flame-free militiamen got a close brush with the fire, any sort of troop morale was gone and the M113 got the pleasure of driving over some of guys that fell out of the harvester.

But the best part of dumb luck struck when a grenade, firmly held by the straps on the machinegunners jacket, cooked off in the troop compartment. Only the driver survived the breaching of the wall and drove on, clueless, towards the center of the town.

Our luck reversed, however, with the arrival of the M113, which lacked any easily exploitable flaws. It led the assault into the village, its remote control turret suppressing the defenders. Militiamen surged behind it, followed by Humvees. We met them with fire from the roofs and the buildings, since the main street had been wiped clean by the harversters passing.

This was a situation that I was totally unprepared for. I could point my rifle over what piece of cover that I had and send some bullets flying, but that was it. I could not "mechanic" at the enemy, there wasn't a bolt I could screw or a circuit I could fix that would drive away the attackers. All my adult skills were for naught in this situation and I felt all semblance of a normal, safe life slipping away, shattering like plaster under small arms fire (which was, incidentally, happening all around).

So I sat there, my back against a part of the wall, changing a capricious AK mag and considering a tactical, all out bawl when I saw, in the distance, a black-red shape appear and crash into the warlord's Humvee, overturning it. Black figures moved to secure the passengers while what seemed to be a new breed of Nod buggies jumped onto the road leading to the village.

The first buggy stopped and a trooper (one of the four hanging from the sides of the vehicle) jumped off, raised a tube on his shoulder and fired. A Humvee, holding the rearguard of the assault force / driven by a coward who wanted to be last to the fight and first to the looting, disintegrated in ball of fire and shrapnel just under the gate arch. Other black troopers streamed past the Humvee Slayer, advancing rapidly and with military precision. Most of them penetrated the gate carefully while the others took out ropes and scaled the wall. The first ones up top scanned the area and told the surviving defenders to stay put.

The militia troops on the street level were surprised by the accurate, disciplined fire coming from their backs – and the frag grenades being thrown from the roofs. One of the black troopers raised a tube and the M113 exploded in the distance. Before long, the fight was over.

Nod troopers assisted with clean up the best they could: they tended to our wounded, shot the enemy survivors, and burned the bodies. The warlord, his "honor guard" and the extremely surprised harvester driver would be taken to the Nod outpost for questioning and executions. We were told that we could come and watch.

It didn't matter, though. The mechanic in me admired the well oiled precision of the assault; the technician saw the advanced gear they carried, but, the most important of all, the scared young adult was enamored by the solid, unrelenting island of peace in an unrelenting stream of chaos, never bending to the whims of a cruel outsider. This was peace through power, and liberty through that piece.

As I said, it didn't matter since I would have gone to the outpost anyway. I was going to become a Nod trooper.


	2. Chapter2: You're in the army now, almost

Chapter 2: You're in the army now, almost

The idea to serve the Nod military looked more appealing day after day. The seed got firmly planted on my way home from the firefight and it bore fruit in the following weeks. For when the lamps dimmed and the work stopped, idle mind provided ample light needed for the idea to grow and to take root in a young adult's need for certainty and safety. While others might have feared death in battle, I feared dying as a civvie more. I felt the helplessness of not being able to strike back at those willing to bring violence against me and I wanted to never feel that again. And yet even more I dreaded to see the day when my people would be attacked and I would be unable, too weak to help. No, that would never do.

But, just in case, I spent a few days mulling it over in my head. No matter how hard I tried to play the devil's advocate, the decision always came back the same: I will join the Brotherhood's military. Our little hidey hole under the barn had enough mechanics and engineers – and one less mouth would take some pressure off the hydroponics. It may also serve to lessen the amount of adult drama in the underground shelter – after all, we were all young and stupid. Why not ride out the storm in the military? Maybe one day I'd come back to a hero's welcome. And even if wouldn't earn any accolades, the thought that I would be doing something to spare those people the horror of outside world was enough. Every young man a hero, every young hero a martyr, right?

I got easy, with thoughts like that; I heard that others wrote poetry so bad, that read aloud it would have brought down the walls of Jericho and the GDI ion cannon network,

Eventually I had to tell the others about my choice. The commandant of the shelter was somewhat indifferent, unlike the preacher we had, who was ecstatic that I had finally heard Kane's call in my heart. The technicians and engineers gave grunts of approval and even rare pat on the back. The engineer that took me to the unlucky village just looked at me very strange, but eventually said nothing. The boys and girls, I mean, the young men and women around me had mixed reactions. The boys were kind of relieved – I was sort of a hero and a celebrity for surviving the siege, which made me, just for a little while, a lot more popular among the girls. Sure, the ladies would talk about me for some time after I leave, but I would be gone, so no harm done, figured the lads.

When the day of the execution came I left, after packing my meager belongings (some clothes and an E-reader), in high spirits. The engineer didn't want to miss the execution – and he was cordially invited to attend it by the outpost commander – as well as some other lands, so we took one of the Russian trucks. Everyone was armed, since people were still jumpy after the siege – who knows how many marauders could be waiting out there? Even I, as the experienced warrior that I was, got an AK-103, which was 7 years old and, as such, still in top shape, as AKs tend to be. I put the safety on and clambered into the cabin of the truck; the engineer was sitting on the middle while one of the technicians, a tough yet cheerful woman, was behind the wheel. And so our merry band of well armed men set out to see an execution!

It was a historical truth that this was never blessed with particularly good roads. The Soviet Union had made an effort to introduce asphalt to practically every road they could, but the Allied victory in the war put a stop to that. After the dissolution of the union, the Balkans turned into a bunch of squabbling states, which did not improve the roads one bit – unless you count mortar craters as an improvement. And then the Tiberium War rolled over – with Eastern Europe being one of the major battlefields, infrastructure suffered even more, especially when bridges were bombed. Yet our truck was designed by Russians and only the bravest of their engineers ever dared to dream that their creations would ride on actual, quality roads (probably after the Hammer and Sickle was raised over the White House). So the ride was reasonably comfortable, worst thing being the locally produced rap and "hip hop" (which was to hip hop what GDI Meals Ready To Eat were to food) pouring out of the radio. With that in mind, it was actually a relief when the engineer turned off the radio and started a monologue about his memories of the war.

We just sat and listed, and he went on and on. Sure, he was an auto mechanic way back in the Union, but, after the appearance of Tiberium, Brotherhood of Nod was a powerful corporation which had plans for its own military (GDI stealing their harvester plans didn't help). Of course, they paid more and the food was better, so how was a poor mechanic from a backwater station to resist? He kissed his young wife goodbye, promised to write and signed up, like many did those days, not for Kane, but for money. And life was good, at the beginning. The pay was good, the further education he got – even better and Kane, with all the rumors of being thousands of years old, was a cooler, more enigmatic employer than the likes of Gates and Jobs. He even got to see his wife at reasonable intervals and the checks he sent her were generous – she even managed to rent a small flat in the city. He even got the pleasure to call her from one of the early, brick like mobile phones and would, probably, one day write her an email on that newfangled internet thing.

Yet at the same time tensions were mounting between the GDI and Nod. Both sides were quite antagonistic – GDI called Nod terrorists and warmongers, Nod responded by branding GDI as paid assassins for the G8 and bullies who got their hands on some dangerous weapons. Then again, wounds of the conflict between the Allies and the USSR were still quite fresh in the public memory and nobody expected to have another horrible war so soon. Surely, they reason, the leaders of the two sides are just rattling weapons and engaging in an elaborate political dick measuring contest. And, after all, a military conflict between a UN task force a corporation-cult would be preposterous!

History, it appeared, had a penchant for preposterous, because a war between GDI and Nod broke out, with Europe and Africa being the major battlefields. Minigunners – the early GDI formations were called Mutil National Grenadiers, abbreviated to MNGR and, in the public consciousness, mistakenly transformed into mininugunners, a name which stuck to the troops of both sides – clashed in cities, tanks rumbled in the fields and jet blackened the skies. The engineers usually weren't on the front, but they saw their share of destruction. Tanks salvaged in the field crisscrossed by trenches and TOW missile wires. Pilots extracted from Apaches crashed in the barns and rural summer houses. Charred bodies of flame tanks drivers, roasted alive when napalms tanks were ruptured (a rare thing, by the way – flame tanks were very well designed). And, of course, repairing shore cannons in Estonia, rewiring construction yards after the minigunners cleaned the occupants out, fixing APCs…

And, of course, the engineer said with a sad sigh and slumping soldiers, losing his wife when her apartment block was leveled by a GDI airstrike that was supposed to eliminate a sniper nest (which turned out to be in an another building). This was the hardest thing – nothing he saw in the war even compared the loss of the love of his life. He spent a few days drunk on vodka stolen from a looted shop. When his commander finally found him, he stepped back in line after several slaps on the face, but spent the rest of the war on autopilot, in a daze. Not even the loss of Temple Prime and Kane had much effect on him. Yet when he finally snapped to, after the war was over, he found a new meaning in life looking after the Nod survivors. After all, the Brotherhood was the sole power structure that improved his life and let his wife enjoy the life in the city and all the cultural perks that went with it (fortuitously enough, his old station and village were also blown off the map by a GDI bombardment, so the engineer was in no position to entertain the thought "she would still be alive if I only I stayed were I was"). And so his story ended with an advice. Not some sappy, sentimental bullshit, but something that came from years of experience: kill any GDI you see, shoot the engineers first and always stay in cover from the aircraft – an advice so common these days that "stay in cover" replaced "stay in touched". We spent the rest of the way in silence, going over what we heard in our heads.

Finally, with old, brown pine needles and dry branches crunched under our wheels, we arrived at the Nod outpost. Of course, like any good Brotherhood installation, it looked anything but. In fact, it was established in an old soviet sports resort, with rectangular housing of brownish bricks surrounding an ugly administration building and even uglier sports facilities. The lookouts and the guards at the gate were dressed either in camo clothing or in track suits, both uniforms being quite common among the bandits, paramilitaries and assorted riffraff of the region, some carried AKs or hunting rifles. All in all, locals that looked, at most, like a problem "best left to the local authorities, so as not to impose our will too much and let them build their country themselves", like the common GDI excuse for not interfering in things like that went. A useful oversight.

True, the compound looked just like a bandit camp or a civvie stronghold. From the air you could see the rectangles of the buildings, their flat roofs covered with aerials lean-tos, makeshift sheds in the yard, dilapidating sporting ranges, piles of garbage and detritus, a few cars and trucks and people mucking about. You couldn't even watch the few roads leading to it, the pines were so thick! On the ground, however, it was a different matter.

The rubble piles – former toilet booths, for example – masked reinforced machine gun nests, Kords and Pechenegs hidden under cloth sacks. Sheds on the ground held RPGs or a rare Panzerfaust 3, on the roofs – Iglas and newer MANPADS. Some of the more spacious buildings of the sports complex - the indoor basketball court, for example - were converted into car pools, where the precious Nod buggies were kept. A few derelict civvie littered the entrances, giving them the image of a usual rural chop-shop. The administration buildings were used as armories and such. And while the dormitories were mostly used as, well, dormitories, they could easily be converted into makeshift blockhouses.

Of course, none of it posed a threat to us since we were the guests of honor who came here to watch the lawful execution of the defeated foes. The locals escorted us to a mess hall where we had a warm meal and some tea – a nice display of hospitality in times like these. Our engineer stole away with the outpost commander to share a couple of war stories over a few shots of Vodka. The rest of us did some fraternizing with our militant Nod brothers. Apparently, this outpost was quite recent and these troops were sent here by one of the younger Brotherhood warlords who had recently risen to power. While they looked pretty laid back and their stories about life in the outpost were quite cheerful. No GDI presence meant that outfits like these ran unopposed and could even get away with small skirmishes with national militaries.

But even they had troubling news. The deterioration of the environment was something that we have gotten used to and, with Nod cells freely sharing technological data, felt ready to endure. What we weren't ready, however, was that fact that Brotherhood was slowly losing its unity. With Kane dead, everyone had their own vision to reach the tiberian future. There were even quiet whispers of Nod clashing with Nod. Even for us far removed from the usual Nod business this was a troubling development.

Later on, just before the execution, the commander sent for me. The engineer, having relayed my story, was with him. He told me that the commander wanted to hear my story personally. With no way around it (and youthful idealism bursting from my chest), I let loose all that was bubbling in my head and made, as far I was concerned, a very earnest and passionate plea. The story of the engineer's service only helped to bolster my resolve and gave added strength to my words. The commander pondered on my reasoning for a minute and said "Vlad, I see that you're a lad of great conviction. Considering that you already faced battle and what a harrowing experience that was, I believe that your plea is true and not a product of some childish wish for glory. And you're in luck! The higher ups are reopening an abandoned base nearby. They have plans to refurbish their Hand of Nod and start training willing recruits. One of our patrols is set to go there tomorrow, so they'll take you with them. I'm sure you will be accepted into the ranks of Nod Troopers". He extended his hand to me "Welcome aboard, brother!"

I was so overtaken by a happy buzz that I only woke up in the meeting hall that was to house the execution. All idle outpost personnel were there and a Nod flag hung near the ceiling. The stage was barren but for two troopers standing as honor guard. Then came and took the center stage to much applause. He raised hands and started his speech with a classic:

"_One vision, one purpose!"_

"_The technology of peace!" _we answered in a chorus.

The warlord, the sole prisoner to survive the interrogation, was brought to the stage by two other troopers. The commander started a speech – he talked about GDI and their two-faced promises of peace; of bandits using abandoned GDI gear to terrorize the peaceful populace; of national leaders who abandoned their peoples and lived in opulence and safety, both of which were granted by directing sycophancy towards GDI and striking deals with the criminals; about Nod being the last line of defense for the common man; about Kane and his vision for humanity. Then he turned to the warlord and laid charges, of marauding and banditry, of corruption, of kidnapping, rape and promoting human slavery – the list went on.

"For such crimes there is only one punishment – death!" the commander said while putting his knife on the warlord's neck. And with a mighty cry –

"_In the name of Kane!"_

_-_ he slit the bandit's throat. And while his bleeding, convulsing body fell to the floor, we answered

"_Kane lives in death!"_

And while the crowd went cheering, this was when the spirit of the Brotherhood, of Kane's vision entered me. It was not about personal glory or getting ahead through the suffering of others. It was about unity and strength; strength required to carve peace in a world beset by bandits and power blocks that were no better than them; it was about clarity of purpose and sacrifice to reach it. It was about being a part of the Brotherhood of Nod.

A future that would be finalized tomorrow and sweep everything aside.

Truly does Kane live in death.


	3. Chapter 3: New boots, new trooper

The morning came and our people had to vacate the beds so that the night shift of the guards could get some shut-eye. Despite all the inner excitement, I slept quite well – alcohol probably helped a little. For some, it helped a lot, but now they were paying their dues, shambling around bleary eyed and swearing quietly. Probably not an ordinary morning for the outpost, but a morning nonetheless.

However, we didn't have time for long goodbyes: the car that had to take me to the base would be leaving soon. So I shook a couple of hands, gave a few hugs. The engineer had the weirdest look when I came to him. But he extended his hand all the same. "Make us proud" he said when I shook it. And, just like that, the ties to my previous life were all but cut.

We took an unmarked Russian jeep, probably a Niva. The driver was in plainclothes, carried a covered SMG and wasn't very talkative. I had nothing else to do but admire the surroundings. The forest was nothing new – seen one tree, seen a hundred of them. The only man made things we passed were either fallen concrete poles of a former power line and dilapidated bus stops. The state probably forgot the recreational base and whoever still lived in the forest were left to fend for themselves.

Well, there were people who got their shit together after the war – this became apparent after we drove onto the highway. It was mostly in a good shape and I saw several other cars traveling this way or that. Not new ones, mind you, but they weren't old clunkers, either. Mostly used, well kept German models – the popular choice of Eastern Europe drivers for the last twenty years. We even passed a truck that was delivering goods somewhere.

We didn't stay on the highway for too long, but I still saw signs of life. Mainly gas stops, serving both combustible and electric engines. Now, these weren't the gas stations of yore – these were more akin to fortified trade outposts. The ability to withstand a small siege or to send some retribution towards those who didn't want to pay showed that the business, while dangerous, was still profitable enough.

Of course, we took to the forest again and such views vanished from our sight. More trees, again. If I get shipped as a trooper, I would like to see some more interesting environs. I've seen enough of coniferous woods already. Then again, soldiers always complain about being stationed somewhere miserable – or at least they do so in the movies. Maybe in few years I'll be ready to kiss the first pine I see, who knows.

My thoughts about a warrior's relation to floral surroundings were cut short when reached a gate. It looked sturdy and flanked by two MG nests. A sentry came to us, exchanged some words with the driver and motioned me to get out. I took what meager belongings I had and followed the soldier through the gate. The trooper passed me on to the care of a guy who looked as an officer.

- A new recruit, eh? The outpost radioed forward. Luckily for you, we are just about done collecting a new batch of trainees. This means that you get to sleep in the Hand of Nod, unlike those poor sods who arrived a few days before and had to help with the cleaning. Bunking with the technicians ain't too comfortable.

He left me at a short line of younglings that stretched before a desk that was placed at the entrance of the Hand of Nod. The building was a grey, two storey tall rectangle. Several technicians were overseeing removal of the literal hand of Nod from its roof. One was loudly questioning the wisdom of placing a buildings sensors and antennae in a globe grasping hand – especially when the base needs to be as inconspicuous as possible. He then trailed off in rambling about how MCV projects should be open source and stuff like that.

Meanwhile, I reached my turn at the table. A female Nod officer in grey uniformand black barrette (sans gasmask) was registering recruits in a tablet PC. Information had already been forwarded and what little backgrounds checks were to be made had already been made; the job was to just check off a bunch of boxes. Who know what yokels might have come here by mistake – or if all potential recruits made it.

- Name, brother?

- Vlad!

- Vlad who?

- Vlad the Orphan?

- So, a war orphan, huh? Well, if you have no suggestions for a surname, it is my duty as a Nod officer to come up with one. I'd go for "Vlad Tepes", but that would probably be too corny. Maybe "Vlad Tempest". Doesn't sound too fake and if you ever meet any of our brothers and sisters who can speak English, they'll appreciate the class and elegance of such a name. Yeah, Vlad Tempest will do nicely. If I never have to write down another Popescu or Nowak again, that would be too soon. Ok, year of birth…

And the questions of the chatty officer went on, barely registering in my mind, met with a lot of automatic yes', no's and an occasional "I don't know". There were better things to think about. I was rolling my new surname around in my head and my mouth, as if to taste it. "Tempest" didn't mean anything to me way back then: I knew English, but it wasn't literary English. Yet it had a nice ring to it, didn't sound like any lewd word I (and, hopefully, others in my outfit) knew and was short and easy to write.

Besides, "Tepes" would have made certain that I'd be called "Dracula" wherever I go.

Ok, Initiate, off to the Hand of Nod you go. You'll get processed and maybe even get to choose your Calling. Now scram, I feel another Wisnievski coming...

So I went up the stairs into what could be called a lobby. A technician was fixing a wall monitor there. He had his tools, there were wires hanging everywhere, an old, shattered screen lay on the floor... This was just another small drop of assurance that I'm either going to be a trooper – or nothing at all. This technician was no different than the people in the garage back home, save for his uniform. Almost as helpless as a civilian. Ain't no way in hell I'm letting myself getting stuck like that. The only way I want to advance in the world is with a weapon in my hand – and protecting such hapless would be casualties like that technician.

These gloomy thoughts lasted all the way to the elevator, where wonder once again came to the forefront. Most MCV built structures favored underground areas – and for Nod, doubly so! Thus the Hands were really extensive underground – after all, they had to provide the Nod infantryman with whatever he needed. Bunks, showers, medical treatment, firing range, armory, study class, spiritual guidance – basically everything. It even had most of the facilities needed to train new troops – although running and bigger training sessions would still need to be held outside. But all that was to be in the future.

Now I was being proded and scanned by a medical officer – a Templar or even a Cleric – to see if I was fit for duty. Mostly a formality, but you never know what living in a cave somewhere might do to a young body, he explained. Before I had the chance to take offense, I was declared reasonably healthy, prescribed some vitamins and shoved forward. To choose my calling. To choose my future.

Well, the exact process wasn't as dramatic. Another officer was sitting behind a desk in the hallway and he had a datapad before him. The Initiates would sit down, talk with the officer, look through short presentations of Callings (Modes of Services, whatever – there was precious little standardization back then) and then sign you up. The choices, however, were admittedly few.

We need to get more facilities rolling to get advanced training gear. But fear not, Initiate, a basic introductory course is the same for everyone, - explained the officer.

Still, I chose Nod Infantryman. Well trained in rifle and having at least cursory training with most other weapons, rapid deployment light infantry – motorized if lucky, mechanized if pulling favours in heavens above. Whatever needs doing, a Nod Infantryman can expect to be there – this suited my dreams perfectly. After all, it's not just sitting and waiting for bad things to happen – it's going out in the field and shooting bad things in the face. Someone else can be a missile trooper, a sniper or squad machine-gunner.

The officer made a tick in the datapad – and that was basically it. Now I was a real Nod Initiate – and not someone called so out of convenience. And now I was going to dress the part – with a grey Nod BDU! They issued that at the armory and I had to put it immediately. While uniform was almost a perfect fit, they had to do some work to find shoes that fit. They were low on less than necessary supplies, the 3D printer was offline, so I was in great risk of getting a pair of used ones – although, as the lady in the armory explained, nobody wanted to part with their shoes once they got comfortable. In the end we got a nice new pair and I was sent on my way.

This unfortunately meant the barracks, where all the other new Initiates were. I was a little apprehensive about meeting new people – living a few years in a small underground community can do that to you, a childhood of moving be damned – and they didn't seem that friendly towards me. See, they had already been here for a few days. Living in tents, helping technicians with whatever heavy lifting was needed. That forged a bit of a bond between them. I was, however, an outsider. Someone who just took a comfy ride here, straight from mama and papa. That asshole didn't have spent half a night in the mud because the MCV stuck and you had to dig it out. No, I was less than welcome here, so I just jumped onto my bunk, hoping that common sense, common hardships in training and common belief in Kane would eventually win - and I wouldn't have my whole unit set against me.

Now, the guys that came later – actually, a guy and a girl – got it harder than that. From what I gathered, my currently unfriendly battle brothers and sisters came here from some villages. Old, well established villages, where war and tiberium changed little. You work all day, occasionally try doing sober, maybe catch some TV in the evening, get really shitfaced in the village dance during the weekends, go beat up the folks that came here from another village. Rinse and repeat, sometimes add shooting at raiders for fun. Now, later comers – actually, the guy - did the biggest tactical – nay, strategic – mistake when they came in. He said:

Hello, brothers! My name is Marko, this is Sonja. We're from Novi Subotica.

_Novi Subotica._ A city – and a big one at that. This brands them as city slickers and them folks the worst, hjuk hjuk. Rural – urban enmity has always been a thing, and now more than ever. There was little communication between the villages and the bigger population centers. So basically, everyone and their grandmother imagined that the people in cities lived way better than those in the province. Little to no raids, even less tiberium and the military doesn't blow up your potato patch because it was chasing terrorists or something. Or so they thought. I never knew how different was life in the big city, but it couldn't have been that good. Oh, of course, in the great western metropolises of GDI everything was comfortable, like war never happened. But these parts weren't that well off when the Soviet Union collapsed and the Tiberium War sure as shit didn't improve stuff. Still, the villagers knew less than I do.

So after a hearty dose of rural supremacy, sneering, finger pointing and a few accusations of homosexuality (directed at Sonja, for some reason) it was safe for me to wave the new folk to come here.

Probably not the welcome you expected, huh? Hey, I'm Vlad. I'm not with the whole turnip crowd – although you could say I lived underground as one.

Hi. - said Sonja. - Well, it's probably rougher for Marko. I, for example, have been outside the city a few times. My grandma lived in a village – so while I was accepted, the locals did try to beat up any boyfriend I brought.

It's not my fault that my extended family is all urbanites! Though I can't say I've hear much about people living in the shelters. How is it, anyways?

So I told them a bit about my youth in the literal underground. The hydroponics, the lack of space, the halogen lights and the rare trips up top. The usual spiel. Luckily they were smart enough not to ask about mutant babies, worm riding, meeting troglodytes or other silly things that people say about the shelters in the dark corners of the internet. In fact, they were perfect listeners.

And then they shared their stories, too. Growing up in city after the war was OK – children had a lot of fun with the rubble and the military wreckage while mothers had to be on constant alert in case shenanigans like that were to happen. Most of the stuff was cleaned up by their early teens, though some of the bigger piles – like bombed out 16-floor apartment buildings and factories – still remained here or there. In the end, they were living like teens did before the war, only now with the added benefit of internet. _Normal _internet, and not that low bandwith, frequently without connection crap that we got back in the shelter.

After an officer came in and commanded us to go to the chapel, I was pretty certain that there will be at least two people in this outfit who won't try to shoot me in the back.


	4. Chapter 4: This is my Raptor rifle

A new recruit may want to just fall into his bunk and dream about future glory in the military service, but first he must be blessed by a confessor. Well, not individually, but a group blessing is still a blessing. By itself it is simple and quite short, so they added a speech to it. Then again, why not? We had a wonderful confessor way back home. Here, we were red into a small chapel, light by traditional red lighting. A black clad confesses stood at the pulpit and, once we were seated, removed her gasmask to give a speech.

Brothers and sisters in Nod! It is so good to see the faithful congregate in one place and take up arms in defense of our most glorious cause! Truly Kane lives in death and his will is carried out through you! For the ranks of the faithful are always assaulted by the forces of unbelievers and the influx of new blood is necessary! Rejoice! For you will take the rifle and push back against the bandits, the looters and the GDI. You might be just a small group, but you will be the first one trained in this facility! This will pave the way for groups of Initiates to follow. As you do now, they too will be enlightened with the secrets of the Gun and the Hymn! They too will carry the torch, but only because you lit the flame!..

The speech went on for a bit. It wasn't a bad one, per se, but clearly this confesses needed just a little more practice. Maybe one day she'll even capture the attention of the less educated Initiates. Because some of the former village folk weren't paying all of their attention to her. Some were trying to hide smiles. I bet those highly humorous joke were to the tune of „hur hur, a confessor with tits" and „I would like to confess...on her face, hyuk hyuk". Then again, I'm not sure if Kane himself would breach their composite wall of dim wits and lack of cultural upbringing.

Mark and Sonja, on the other hand... They were beaming with fervor I could only wish to match. I myself was devoted to Kane, sure, just like any other member of Nod, but these two looked like paragon of that achievement. No surprise here, seeing as Sonja was brought up in a religious family and Marko was a new convert. Both had their reasons to be passionate and it showed – not on purpose, of course, but because it was hard to contain. Eyes wide and glistening with excitement, backs – stiff in anticipation, waiting for a call to action and their hand – restless in search for a purpose. If this power was to be harnessed and shaped, it would be a storm to behold. And I could only hope to match them – after all, every believer strives to be better and I had examples in front of me.

And yes, they were as animate outside the chapel as they were inside, discussing the speech endlessly. As I've said, I wasn't that impressed, but listening to them was still enlightening. They new scripture better than I did and Sonja was, all in all, well read, so their discussion was quite informative. Unlike that of our peers that were discussing such high point of Nod dogma like „when we are going to eat"and „how long will we sleep". Luckily, training is mostly grunting and not a lot of discussion classes, so I won't have to hear their opinions on life and things.

At least, I hoped so when I drifted to sleep back in the barracks.

Wake up call, however, was not a pleasant surprise. Waking up at 6 in the morning was a bit usual – then again, with lights out declared at 22 hours, you could hardly blame lack of sleep on it. I'd just have to adjust – to it and to short morning prayers that we have after the quick washing and cleaning up our bunk. Although, if the old „Generation Kill" series – it was about a GDI recon marine operations in the Middle East – were to be believed, all of that discipline and sleep would go out of the window as soon as military operations started. Nevertheless, it's probably inadvisable to have fresh recruits already suffering from malnutrition, lack of sleep and posture problems, so at least we'll have some comfortable living while we trained.

Not everything was sunshine and butterflies, though. To get as acquainted with our gear as fast as possible, we were to wear full armor at all times in the training. This was skipped for a few introductory physical training exercises, so as not to overload the weedier recruits (and me), but most of the time we wore everything, from the BDUs, which, in training, were red, light armored vests and horrible helmets that looked like a fishbowl of a metalhead goldfish. They had integrated gasmasks, goggles and some facial protection, so not all was bad. And the armor wasn't that heavy – the vest was made from lightweight materials as, it was explained, most nod infantrymen had to be on the move and probably on foot and speed was the emphasis here. After all, an organization this scattered couldn't – and didn't really want to – go against GDI head on, so hit-and-run tactics was the name of the game. And since, at least, in Balkans the GDI presence was negligible, we didn't really have to hold the line. But if did try it, it would have to be done with the Raptor rifle.

"This is the Cobretti AR-70 Raptor rifle" said our armory officer while holding up an awkward piece of metal during out first rifle drill "a bunch of GDI nerds were ordered to come up with a new gun and this is what we got. How are in possession of a GDI weapon? The same engineers that made it uploaded the 3D printing schematics to the internet, to help the people in poorer places to defend themselves. Of course, they got caught and court marshaled without even realizing that those poor people they were helping didn't have 3D printers, internet connection or electricity. If it was my decision, you'd all be using the AEK-989. But apparently the Raptor is easier to print and to maintain. People would almost call it the "AK-47 of the Tiberium Era" if not for the fact that it's so ugly and has no ergonomics. Place you faith in Kane, initiates, I'm sure we'll come up with something better in the long run. For now, the logistic necessities force us to use the Raptor and by Kane you'll use it and love it. Here, this is how you disassemble it..."

Way back then the Raptor was OK rifle, I guess. I hadn't had much experience with other guns and our underground shelter didn't really have an arsenal or a shooting range. As far as my experiences with AK's go, the Raptor was lighter, yet had less recoil, more accuracy and came with a three times larger magazine. Oh, it was ugly as sin and ergonomically poor to the point where looking at it made your eyes hurt, but it was a decent rifle. The Raptor also had a SAW version with a slightly longer barrel, a whooping 300 bullet box magazine and a higher fire rate. A marksman version was also available, again, with a longer barrel, smaller magazine and a lower fire rate. There were talks about a PDW and SMG versions, but those were mostly old wife tales, told by senior armory officers to scare the new guys.

Marko came to love the high fire rate of the SAW version while Sonja proved to be a superior marksman. I was nothing special, in that regard – I got the best scores while shooting the vanilla Raptor. Of course, as per requirement, everybody in our course had to qualify in all three guns, which was, as far as I knew, nothing unusual in the pre-war militaries. Most of the shooting was done in the underground shooting range – it couldn't be done outside since a platoon level shooting exercise would attract too much attention. It was better for marksman practices – single, sporadic shots in the forest was nothing new for the locals who were used to hunting or armed robberies.

We did, however, do our physical exercises in fresh air. Our red BDUs were could be easily mistaken for tracksuits and instead of Nod patches we used "Stinger Security Training" badges. "Real subtle there, guys" said Sonja when she saw them for the first time – it was a black scorpion in a yellow triangle. Yet these exercises in the field showed the potential of my friends' faith. When everybody was slogging through some mud patch, Marko would mutter "for Kane" and quicken pace. When she got stuck climbing a wall, Sonja would recite a line from a prayer and summon her strength reserves. When running, Kane gave them a little boost. It was Nod that got Marko through the swimming exercises that he at first feared. It was Nod that made Sonja practice fiercely for CQC – the sexes trained in mixed pairs and the oafs really liked the CQ part too much for her comfort – and eventually excel, making her the best hand to hand fighter in our class (there were experiments with mounting bayonets on Raptors, but it was discovered that simply clubbing someone was faster). This is the kind of dedication I, as a faithful member of Nod, tried to emulate, especially when the technician inside lost all hope after watching the feeble yokel attempts at rifle assembly.

But this wasn't the only place where their ineptness showed. Military history, military conduct and Nod ideology classes were a bane to them. You see, Nod, facing the realities of war, needed troopers that were smart and showed initiative, even when cut off from supplies or the chain of command. We didn't have numbers or armor to just throw at the enemy and hope for success. No, they wanted to make troopers that, when thrown against the enemy, would formulate a battle plan, use unpredictable tactics and assets at hand. If you started your assault on a military compound by crashing a driverless fuel truck at the main gates, it was a good tactical move. We studied all sort of asymmetric warfare campaigns and scenarios, so as to get inspiration. I imagined that higher ranks had even harder studies, since an unimaginative officer would greatly inhibit the way that troops acted. At any rate, the trooper was to a self sufficient war-machine, especially when we passed advanced training and optional modules, like the fabled asymmetric urban operations course.

Of course, this was a bit much for some of the oafs. A part of them seemed to be immune to anything more complex than a straight up firefight or an L-shaped ambush and the worry was obvious in the faces of the instructors. This was sadly obvious in the classes where we learned such basics as "not shooting civilians". At least a bit of the peasants showed eagerness – at least away from the ears of the trainers – to just go "rock 'n' roll" on people who weren't obviously Nod. This meant they were infidels and those had to be destroyed. This was less of a religious thing and more of group "us vs. them" mentality, rationalized with bits of poorly understood dogma. Or maybe badly explained dogma – things being as they were, there was no way of doing a quality check on all of the disparate Nod preachers, confessors and other men and women of cloth. It was regrettable, but so was the reign of GDI in most of the world, and one could only do his or her best to salvage the situation.

Eventually, after weeks of drills, marches, runs, surprise midnight training, floor scrubbing, barrack watches, weapon maintenance, studies of the Soviet-Afghan war, BDU washing and even some (that is, two times) live grenade training, we were ready to be declared suitable to hold a rifle issued by Nod and carryout Kane's will, one bullet at a time. This also brought the three of us together: grouped as outsiders, we had to rely on each other when facing, especially at first, the scorn of the peons. But we watched out backs in training, helped each other whenever we could (Marko had problems with SAW cleaning) and ended up being, well, as much of a comrade at arms you might be after basic training. Even the trainers looked at us favorably, as our combination of strengths made up for our weaknesses. I was especially beloved in the armory, as my technician upbringing meant that I was able to assemble the Raptor without leaving spare parts afterwards.

And while basic training wasn't that much of a thing, with prospects of advanced training only looming somewhere in the distance, they had a small graduation celebration in the chapel. We even had some special guests – one of the higher officers came here in a new-ish jeep and even the outpost commander – the one who approved of my recruitment – came here. We sat in the chapel, listened to speeches, were blessed and anointed.

We were, finally, soldiers of Nod.


	5. Chapter 5: No affiliation with Nod

The basic training was well and over while advanced one didn't even loom in the horizon. Either the facilities have yet been completed or the engineers were re-routed somewhere more important, or the MCV was stuck because someone tried to make a moonshine still out the engine... The reasons were numerous and, for us, mostly mysterious. Without the facilities and personnel to train us in the advanced ways of warriorhood, we were relegated to the most dreadful and widespread task in any military: waiting.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been in a regular field base. After all, we had decent quarters, even though after a new batch of recruits arrived we were transferred to a hastily redecorated factory garage. There was no reason to force us into foxholes – and those would have been somewhat suspicious in the compound of a supposed private protection company. We also had showers, proper toilets and grub. It was boredom that was the most threatening, so to save us from it, the commander held various drills and made us patrol the perimeter. That also served as a kind of show of force if some of the more ambitious locals wanted to show up and make some unreasonable demands as those with guns and a speck of cruel intelligence are wont to do.

The security BDU's we got were pretty comfy, the yellow logo – still as snazzy and as stupid as ever. Still, with the private security sector dominated by somewhat uplifted thugs with various criminal connections, a scorpion wouldn't attract undue attention, lost among tigers, lions, wolves and fists of rivaling companies. At least we got to keep the Raptors, since those were deemed inconspicuous enough. After all, the last war saw mass deployment of Callico produced GAU-8 carbines and after a civvie had seen one of those, he'd never again be surprised by a strange rifle.

And while Raptor still made my eyes sore just by looking at it, I managed to get the best out this situation. Due to my technical skills, I was able to provide some small help to the quartermaster, who was overjoyed with my efforts. As such, me and Marko now had hand-me-down holographic sights on our respective guns. Sonja didn't need one since that would be a downgrade from her 3.4 scope that she got due to her potential of becoming a designated marksman or maybe even a sniper some day. The rest of the lot had to contend with iron sights. Then again, those were enhanced with self glowing tritium, so at least they looked good in the dark. Not that we had anyone to shoot at, but the effect is pretty nice.

Either way, the technological differences didn't deepen the divide between the three of us and other recruits. Heck, if nothing else, training together might have even whittled down, at least a little, their animosity. Which, all in all, is a good thing, since you want to trust you comrades in arms. When you're putting your neck on the line, they'd better be watching your back. And not going all "Vlad is pinned! Fuck it, let's leave him, he's a shithead anyways". Of course, as movie upon warmovie teaches us, true friendship and comradeship is forged in heat of battle, yadda yadda yadda. It's a bit too early for that, since we haven't even finished our training yet.

And so, waiting for it to continue, we patrolled that the chain link fence perimeter, cleaned our impromptu barracks, stood and marched in drills, visited the chappel in the Hand of Nod. The three of us tried to make ourselves look busy, because we were bored and because idle troopers attract the attention of officers, who always find something to do. Sometimes Marko and Sonja would go to the chaplainess to discuss matters of faith; I would work trying to fix some of the industrial vehicles left in the plant. After all, deniable means of transport were quite useful for a hush-hush outfit like ours. Eventually, I managed to get a pair of trucks back to working condition (or close enough to it) and we used Marko's puppy eyes and Sonja's diplomatic skills to convince the leadership that painting them in company colors might be useful if we wanted to transport troops semi openly. Eventually, we got enough paint for one, as the other truck was transferred to the pool of really unidentifiable vehicles. Painting the car was fun, although we were short on the youthful shenanigans that you would expect out of two young men and an attractive lady; after all, metallic paint we got weren't exactly a toy. On the other hand, it's was sort of agreed that when summer rolled around, we'd go silly washing the car. A wet BDU contest with a single contestant is easier to explain or cover up and way more fun that paint poisoning.

And thus we spent our two weeks week patrolling, painting cars and getting increasingly deadly against targets that don't more, fire back or have a third dimension. Fortunately, by the time I started seeing the holo reticle every time I closed my eyes, we all got the order to assemble at the briefing. We were quite ecstatic since that meant change from the ho-hum activities. Marko and Sonja very also very happy, since this meant either serving the faith in some more meaningful way or improving themselves as soldier of Kane. Oh, how I wish that I had such strength! My reasons for that brief pang of joy were more selfish: it dawned to me, one day elbow deep an engine, that this was exactly the kind of life I wanted to avoid in my service to Kane. But, no matter what we thought deep in our hearts, we were all seated in the briefing room as members of one unit.

- Brothers and sisters! - spoke the commander. - Though your training is not yet complete, you have the basic skills needed to be a soldier of Nod! And now comes the time when they will possibly be tested. No, you're not going into active battle, but your position in this camp presents us with a unique opportunity! Apparently, scientists from one of the local universities want to test their theory on one small, almost dried out Tiberium deposit. They wanted to that earlier, but there were no sources of the divine crystal in this land and they were too poor to travel. GDI didn't provide funding when asked, thus proving once again that it only serves the interests of the rich western oppressors. But now, with the discovery of this small deposit, the scientists want to mount a field expedition. As it involves expensive equipment and no small investment from the university, they require a field detail. This is were you come in, with your "private security" training and yellow uniforms...

This continued a bit, but the basic gist of it was that we'd provide security for a small band of scientists. This was not too dissimilar from what we were doing here, in the base, but hey, new surroundings! New tasks! We might even get to dig a foxhole or two, or shoo away some village idiots out to defend their territory from people they don't know and thus don't like! Hurrah! My friends seemed to be similarly excited and almost beaming. I wonder if officers don't miss such cheerful demeanor from veteran troops. Everything I read and watched suggested that morale and excitement rarely held among more veteran troops. But we were young, green and filled with faith, I think we deserved a pass on that one.

Then again, it didn't matter what it meant to us, as we still had to pretend that were "Stinger Security" people, as university employees would probably be mindful of working with so called terrorists. Still, I wonder if they had any doubts. We probably got the contract because we underbid all others, so the reason why we were so generous should have cost someone at least fifteen minutes of sleep. But, in the end, it didn't matter. We were about to get some change of scenery, and that was it.

After a few days we left in the truck that I fixed and painted. The time before was spent drilling out of us all references to Nod and getting us acquainted with a veteran officer who would lead us into battle. Disciple Shtakevich was his name and he was hard, but not unreasonably so. During the drills everybody quickly fell in line with the new leadership and reacted to orders as well as could be expected from such troops. Also, at least the three of us, had attained the example of what we should strive to become at least in the near future. While we hadn't witnessed his real mettle, the fact that he was entrusted to command our squad, meant that he was deemed a worthy officer by the higher ups. After all, even if this was low danger mission, command wouldn't risk loosing a new batch of recruits, their equipment and whatever profit we got from the research by sending us with an incompetent oaf. That's what we thought and, thankfully, we were proven correct later on.

But now we sat in the back of the truck, shoulder to should, our guns between our legs, we were riding to our destination. We felt as the truck left the bumpy forest road for the highway, where we rode for a few hours. We made some idle chitchat as we went, but didn't any more entertainment options. I also listened to the truck engine, the engineer within me happy with what he heard. Still, I once again reaffirmed to myself that never will I ever be a hapless technician again. Maybe I'll keep tabs on the vehicles where I'll be stationed, maybe even help the technical crews now and then, but no dedicated wrenching for me. The gun in my hand was my tool now, even if it looked like a retarded metal baguette.

Bumping announced that we had gone off the road again. I wonder what wondrous place are we going to? I'd wager a guess that we'll be seeing more pines real soon and no real change in the surroundings. These parts were wooded before and after the war the wasn't that much logging to be done.

- If there's one thing good about the GDI, it's that they keep leaving their shit behind when they get bored. - said Marko. - That meant a lot of military powerplants were left idle after the war. Otherwise, come first winter, it would have been "bye bye forests".

- It's true. - said Sonya. - Marko's dad got rich by "repurposing" cables and using them to connect the powerplants to the city grid. Of course, the infrastructure was a patchwork, especially after the war damage. But we send engineers from our hideouts and civvies had their own smart people working of it. We saved a lot of folk, gained a few points in the eyes of the public.

- Hell, that's how we eventually got into contact with Brotherhood – admitted Marko.

So, because of the efforts of civilians and Nod engineer, the forests just stood there, impassable and shedding bark, branches and other detritus on the ground. Needless to say, forest service was not one of priorities of the government when the war ended and it didn't seem like things changed that much afterward. I wonder if other Eastern European countries were in such a bind. The collapse of the Soviet union in the nineties didn't leave the most responsible people in charge – or so the saying went. Same old red farts jumped the ship, turned their hides and continued to do nothing for their people, but now under the guise of free market capitalism. Hopefully, many of them perished when their GDI masters started war against Nod.

History aside, we finally stopped and got out. It was actually a quite a big clearing in forest, ending abruptly near the spot were we stood. Two things caught one's eye: the remains of what seemed to be a small cargo plane with a faded golden eagle on the tail – gee, I wonder who that represented – and a sizable patch of Tiberium near it. The faint green glow attracted the eye, but we didn't get that many chances for lollygagging – disciple started barking orders and we were to secure perimeter. And secure the perimeter we did. But while we feeling sorry for any poor sap that would try to attack us through the impassable thick of the forest and looking for possible boar assault routes, the scientists arrive.

They had a couple of trucks similar to mine that were rolling down the middle of the clearing and behind them... well, behind them a was an unholy abomination – a derelict Tiberium miner brought to life by ghetto engineering and Slavic ingenuity. It was a Frankenstein monster of Tiberium miners and heavy industrial equipment in general. There were patches of metal of different shapes, colors and sizes. Wires and tubes running in places where they shouldn't run. Various arcane machinery affixed to it – I assume that was some of scientific equipment, mounted there for science. Somehow, that thing went forward and somehow people hoped it would gather Tiberium. Well, it wasn't actually my thing to worry about. I just had to provide security.

This meant that after he greeted the scientists and told them where to put their stuff, Shtakevich called us back together to teach us something very important: how to mine a tree with an antipersonnel mine.

- Now, I don't really know what they teach you in the new basic training, but I assume you have seen a mine before. We're going to place them around the perimeter, in case someone is smart enough to attack from the forest. - the disciple said to the assembled troops. - Although, judging by the shape of the forest, we're have more chances of blowing up a Bambi or two. Ok, now, watch me closely...

Arming the mines was easy, this was, after all, pretty uncomplicated equipment. We had a somewhat advanced version – directional mines with directional movement sensors. These were of a special kind that, upon detecting movement, would emit a sound inaudible to human ear. Thus a bunny or a goat had time to vacate the premises, while humans would just continue onward towards separation of ass and torso. This wasn't a viable weapon against modern armies – their troops would have headsets that are can be tuned to hear that warning pitch. But against backwater militias, it was perfect, as well as carrying little risk of green recruits fucking up while setting tripwires.

And so, with every tree set to explode as soon as some hippie rustles in the bushes, we warned the scientists that the forest was off limits. And to take care of some of the, uh, more natural needs, we, the troopers, got dig a latrine, well away from the Tiberium patch and the scientific areas. Sonja got away from it, abusing her marksman privilege to keep watch on the clearing path, but that doesn't mean that female troops didn't have to pitch in. In fact, Malgozhata, one of the Other Troopers, was, shall we say, built like brick shithouse and could have had any man by the virtue of being able to run him down and drag him back to the barn. So she was with us when grabbed our Manual Fortification and Utility Expedition Tool (since, apparently, this was as superior to "entrenching tool" as it was to a "shovel") and started flinging turf with military precision. Could be worse, though. I could be special ops trooper somewhere behind the enemy lines, eating concentrated foods, dropping turds that would go "clang" on concrete and then spending fifteen minutes hiding any trace of me being there.

Thus we got in the rut of being in a forward base, which was similar to what we experienced back at the camp, only without all the things that made life worth living, like showers. We walked the perimeter, slept in shifts, learned to like MREs (despite their apparent semi improvised nature, those weren't half bad) and so forth. Eventually, we even began to fraternize, a little, with the scientists. Well, not the professors and doctors themselves, but to the assistants that stole away from the expetiment to have a smoke, have a chat, maybe even flirt some. Eventually, we found out a lot more about the project that we were guarding.

- The Tiberium field? How is it here? Aw, man, that's a sweet story. Totally unlikely, but still sweet. Great luck to us all, too. See, you can't get to a field here somewhere, no way. What hasn't been mined is closed and mined by the Man. Who knows where the profit goes, 'cos we sure aren't seing them. Anyways, one day, playing with the detectors in the institute, we register a ping. That shouldn't be there, man, no new growths were registered here. But still, it was there. We thought this would end up, you know, the suits would swoop in and take everything. Gummit business, you know? But we still came to check it out. Turns out, a GDI plane got shot down during the war. But it's the war, shit's getting shot down left and right, they probably picked up the pilots and went home. But the plane had a small sample of Tiberium on board. Over the years, it managed to chew through the containment and spread. So here we are. And while it's not our primary goal, we'll mine the lot of it. Will do a lot of good in research. And we'll sell the rest, maybe even get funds for new equipment. As I said, stroke of luck, man...

It certainly was, for them. Even such backwater countries had to deal with Tiberium seriously, no matter how hard they didn't want to. And once the gears of bureaucracy started to grind the crystal, there was no way you could your hands on it, not without influential friends. Still, that didn't explain what was in it for us.

On the other hand, Marko didn't forget to pack his puppy eyes and one of younger lady assistants was blurting out experiment details in no time (or in about a week).

- You see, - she said when we sat around a campfire - this is very interesting. To put simply, Tiberium leeches the useful materials out of the surrounding ground and uses it to grow. That's why it's good for industry – concentrated materials in a convenient, if a bit dangerous, package. But that is still more cost efficient than simple mining. But what the others overlook is the fact that once you eliminate a Tiberium field, you're left with a hole in the ground. A miniature wasteland hole in the ground, since all the nutritious materials have been sucked out. So our experiment works with post-Tiberium soil revivification. We plan on using various biological waste and bacteria and to refill the hole, mix it with the existent dirt and see what comes out of it. Your latrine may prove to be even more useful, because we have plans to...

While she tried to impress Marko with plans to save the world through the medium of feces, I mulled over what she said. Nod was always ahead in the field of Tiberium science – after all, Kane had prophesied the appearance of the crystal and he was the one to introduce the means to harvest it. But with him gone, Nod science had to make do without his brilliance. This, in turn, meant reliance of outside scientific sources, especially since so many of our researchers perished with Temple Prime or were killed by that damned commando Havoc during the War. And no matter what Tiberian future awaited us, we'd still have to have food – or air to breathe. Suddenly enlightened by the knowledge that this task was really important to out goal, I felt the rifle become lighter, the armor more free and the smell of latrine not so revolting. I'm sure Marko and Sonja felt the same. Now, we just had to wait till the experiment was over.

But the time didn't pass idly by. A week later, the almost inevitable happened. We heard and saw a pair of jeeps coming down the clearing. Big, shiny black boxes, clearly designed to look cool in the city rather than battling actual dirt. These weren't no government envoys. Shtakevich placed us on high alert and went out to meet them, flanked by two troopers. Luckily, my position was near the clearing and not, say, on the other side of the plane, so I had no risk of missing the action.

With shouts, gesturing of hands and pointing of guns, the jeeps were ordered to stop at a distance. The doors opened and disgorged the usual suspects – big, tracksuited gorillas flanking one of their kind who was, by someone with a wicked sense of humor, dressed in a business suit and had several prominent golden chains. Bandits, in seemed, didn't progress none since War and might have been steadily regressing. Anyways, a shouting match ensued, and even though I didn't hear everything clearly, I got the general gist of it. The gorillas had heard about this expedition from Kane-knows-who and, at first, wanted to offer _their _protection. And not only to us, but the scientists, too. Probably having ties to militias, other private "security" outfits or just flush with guns from the War, they felt pretty cocky about themselves. But, no matter what, the disciple held his cool no matter how loud the monkey shouted. In the end, after some intense gestures and guttural roars, the guests turned to leave...

Only to turn around with guns in their hands. Our troopers didn't react at first, but our disciple wasn't a green initiate: he was already on one knee and opening fire from his pistol. Two shots in the chest and one in the head took down the lead guy. By then our guys' training had kicked in and both of Shtakevich's escorts were on the ground and raking tracksuits with short, controlled bursts. They quickly switched to automatic fire when they noticed three other guys trying to get out of the jeep. By the time they stopped going rock'n'roll on the car (ammo ran out, you see), the second one was backing up, and half way down the clearing. And by the time we reached position to fire, it was already turning to leave, so we only managed to break one of the side windows – and that probably was Sonja's doing. With us covering them, the disciple motioned his escorts to follow him when he went to check the car. After all six attackers were pronounced dead (very dead in case of the last three), the disciple returned.

- Assume defensive positions, troopers, I've no doubt they'll return.


	6. Chapter 6: Live Fire

The common urban gorilla is a simple creature, like others of his stock – a cut-throat criminal in an organization that talks of loyalty but knows nothing of it, reacting to every obstacle with excessive force, that sort of thing. Probably the worst monkey there, if only for the need to dress in suits and wear excessive amounts of jewelry. In any case, we had slain what was probably one of their more important middle tier guys, and now they had to strike back, to show that they're not weak and still nobody to trifle with.

Of course, we notified HQ of our situation and they told us to sit tight while they figure out what to do. Ideally, they're getting intel from people that we have in the cities – which would invariably include some underworld contacts – but that still leaves us with the possibility of being assaulted by angry, assault rifles wielding goons. And, with all the scientists and equipment that needs protecting, we have nothing else to do, but dig in, sit down and wait for them to come.

Then again, this would probably be our first engagement and, as far as baptisms in blood go, this might be a good thing. We haven't received any advanced training as of yet, so we're not the best fighters. Gangsters, on the other hand, probably trained even less and even if they have the willingness to shoot something, we are arguably better armed, better prepared and have a better position. And if things start going south, we can always call on for back up from the base – which we'll probably do anyway. Can't get too confident – all in all, we're just a small squad of rookies with no heavy weapons or any kind of direct support.

Of course, we couldn't say that to the scientists. Some of the younger assistants were somewhat shaken by the sudden violence, but the older professors have lived through Tiberium War, so this wasn't totally new for them. Some of them had probably even lost people they cared about. And everyone was familiar with the way criminals operate in these parts. With luck, they don't know who is doing the research there and whether they attack us, well, to protect their turf. In that case, the scientific personnel will have to hide among their equipment and hope that no stray bullet nabs them. And that the criminals won't bring any heavy ordinance – you never now in this region – otherwise this can go real bad, real fast.

Thus we prepared for it as good as we could. We placed a few mines on both sides of the road clearing and used what was left to reinforce the forest perimeter. A few shallow firing positions were dug to protect us from the enemy fire. Sonia miracled up some bags which she filled with dirt and made herself a ghetto marksman position on top of one of the trailers. We even considered digging a few ditches with sharpened stakes, but never went through with it because the value of such traps was dubious. A second ring of foxholes was considered, but only briefly – if the enemy got close enough to over-run the first one, we would be about done anyways. Besides, it's not like the enemy had that many avenues of attack – the forest surrounding us was thick enough to give mosquitoes trouble in navigation. At least we were able to get the shot up SUV back to the camp and make it into a sort of makeshift wall.

The unpleasant part was removing the corpses from the road. Sergeant decided not to cause more stress for the two guys who actually took the bandits down, so me and Marko volunteered to do it. Marko claimed to have seen a few in the city, while me... Well, I was a war orphan and we moved a lot. Sometimes, outside the window of a bus or through a tear in the fabric that covered a truck, you'd see thing. Not exactly nice things. Stuff that I was too young to understand – or to memorize correctly. I didn't ask about it, so nobody told me that those were dead people. I understood that later on, when I was a bit older and a bit more mature. That said I wasn't too perturbed by the dead bodies.

Especially since bandits are so easy to dehumanize. I mean, these aren't some poor, down on their luck souls that took up stealing out of desperation. Oh no, both these guys and the ones that attacked the other village a few weeks – or is it months now? - were career criminals. People who decided that trying to make a living the honest way was too hard. And that it's justifiable to leech from the people who didn't make that ugly choice. They didn't come here to lend us a hand with the research or the defense. They weren't interested in scientific data or maybe the morality of hogging such a find. We just... were there and supposedly an easy target to boot. Well, this easy target bit back.

And now the biggest problem with these guys – besides the weight – was deciding where to put them. Forests were full of animals, especially since Tiberium War had a way of driving down the human population, which used to be their main predators. And we didn't need wolves slinking around the camp, howling in frustration whenever they encounter the acoustic barrier of the mines. Also, flies and the smell of rot and, well, the simple sight of bloating corpses wouldn't do good for the morale while also being of dubious effect on the enemy.

With bodies unceremoniously dumped in a ditch on the edge of the forest – Nod didn't have burial rites for hardcore criminals – it was back to patrolling and nervously watching the road. The night after the shootout was probably the worst. We no longer had work to keep us occupied and keep our thoughts away from probable future combat. But on night shift... well, there wasn't much else to do but watch the darkness (and admire the moonlight, sky and stars) and wait. Sure, the bandits probably wouldn't attack at night – NVGs wasn't the most common of surplus military equipment – but hey, we were still worried. Of course, this all ended with your shift, when you were able to get back to your sleeping bag and your body, running high on tension, relaxed so fast, you didn't even get to worry about your bag not being in a reinforced position.

The next day was pretty normal. Scientists did their best to continue with their work – maybe even hurrying a bit, what with the possibility of being shot or have their precious tools shot up. They had more smoking breaks, that's for sure, but at least they didn't cry curled up in a corner or try to walk into the small and rapidly depleting tiberium field. We didn't need more tension and someone shouting "Game over, man, game over" wouldn't really help.

Of course, it would probably have helped if we could have thought about things other than the possible attack or being nervous about it, but we didn't really have many alternatives.

After all, we were proven right when we heard engines and saw a few cars appear at the far end of the field. Now, they couldn't really drive closer – we'd open fire at once and make them canned meat. On the other hand, charging over a field wasn't really a good idea. I mean, there were some trees, tree trunks and shrubbery, but it was far from ideal. And, hopefully, our rifles would prove to be more accurate at range than whatever they brought with them. Even if those were GDI leftovers and not something a corrupt army colonel sold them, those weapons were still at least a generation behind on what we had. Granted, rifles don't really change much over the years, but still, any advantage that we'd have is welcome.

Anyways, we assumed our positions – I was relatively close to Marko and could see Sonia shimmying up to her position – and watched. The "troops" poured out of the cars and split into two groups, because nobody was stupid enough to advance in the middle of the road. I didn't see much, but they looked like they had rifles and wore tracksuits – on par with what we expected of them. Sergeant was radioing HQ, who promised to send us reinforcements: "just in case" they said.

We were waiting for them to close in a bit – maybe to identify them as hostiles, and not security conscious mushroom aficionados – when we saw that they were left at the cars. And one of them lifted something onto the hood of a vehicle. This didn't appear good – and, no surprise, that turned out to be a machinegun. A real, old school medium MG. This would have been an exciting discovery if not for the fact that it immediately opened fire on us, to suppress any fire we might send at the machine-gunner's buddies. Sarge told us to open fire, targeting whatever people we can see close, while also radioing Sonia to take care of the gunner.

So, with my sights trained down range and firing mode set to single, I started to plink away at the approaching enemy. MG round where flying somewhere over my head, a concern, but not an immediate one: it was mostly suppressing the tiberium spilling out of the plane. Sonia was doing a much better job – even though Raptor was proving to be somewhat ill suited for the task. Even with her skill and scope, she wasn't hitting the gunner as soon as we hoped she would. Then again, neither of us were true crack shots and she was actually more suppressed than any other member of our squad.

But she did her part and we did ours. We were sending bullet after bullet downrange, wherever we perceived movement. There was some incoming fire too, as one of the bandits would release a burst while moving forward. They didn't have much in the way of solid cover, but that random crap in the clearing was doing a decent job of hiding. Of course, their tracksuits kind of negated some of the value.

They moved in to the range where we felt comfortable to fire three round bursts. This made them plant face first into the ground and shoot from there. Some luckier ones found positions behind trees and trunks and were firing from there. We could see bullets kicking up dirt somewhere before us and that would make our hearts race somewhat faster. However, we still felt pretty well – or at least I did. Adrenalin was running through my veins and I definitely felt sweat running down my next, but I never stopped firing.

And then Sonia got the machine-gunner.

The sudden silencing of the gun shocked the bandits a bit, but it only opened a window of opportunity to make some good, targeted shots. Marko was somewhat liberal with his ammunition while I was more careful in selecting where to shoot. I thought I saw movement near a tree, so I fired there.

Some people claim that they will always remember their first kill or that it haunts them. Well, I was lucky. For one, I wasn't a trooper fighting a war against another army made up of troopers just like me. Those people are the ones you can understand and even identify with somewhat – both of you were ordinary people before joining the military and being sent to kill each other. This wasn't the case with the bandits, who were not just some guys. They were hard core outlaw types – the ones that grab an AK and go to shoot people in the forest – and thus, not exactly worthy of being one of us. He might have had a childhood like many of us and some dreams, but the fact that he was so ready to come here and kill people he didn't have a legitimate reason to kill, proved him being opposite of us. He couldn't even pretend to be ideologically motivated – he was driven by greed and pure self interest. Even if one of them had a struggling family to take care of, this didn't exonerate him.

This only makes me angrier – the thought that some of them felt that they were in the right while trying to come here and shoot us. That they were the slighted sight and we had to be punished for our insolence in defending ourselves against their encroachment. Somewhere, on the other side of the field, there was a though going through one of those idiot's heads; a thought that justified whatever he was doing and let him feel angry against us. Well, I was going to deprive them of this feeling he had no right to. I was going to deprive them all of a lot more – like these were going to do to us. Like those thugs in the village some time ago. Like GDI about nineteen years back...

Therefore, when I fired a burst at a figure near a tree and saw it throw down its rifle, I didn't feel no pang of guilt nor regret. He fell and I didn't see shock in his face or horror in his eyes, I didn't hear him call for his mother nor plead against death. It was... pure and somewhat simple. Made easier by the fact that enemy de-humanized himself. Made easier by the fact that he was too far away to see anything personal about his last moments. Clean, pure, easy...

And then we heard behind us. Unmistakably, it was one of the mines, which means someone tried to sneak up on us. Sergeant ordered me, Marko and one other guy to slink back to the check it out. Trying to keep as low as we can, we waddled up to the plane wreckage and peered around to inspect the area of explosion. Turns out, the bandits did get the bright idea to send some guys through the forest to attack us from behind. Poor sods: after going through the assorted horrors of Mother Nature, they walked right into the mines. I think I saw two of them dead, but couldn't confirm it at the time. We decided that we can wait at our well concealed position and see if there are more of them and will they break from the forest to carry on the attack.

In the few moments before they do it, I keep repeating the mantra that got me through shooting the guy at the "frontline": there are hardened criminals, these are scum, and they're here to kill us. It's a precaution – I didn't flinch when firing at figures hiding between the sparse trees and sparser shrubs, but this shootout will happen at point blank range. I might even see their faces. So, I'm sort of mistrustful of myself, of the part that might want to dodge the military training and be "human". I have to make sure that doesn't happen. I must not doubt. I must not flinch. I...

They make it easy for us, bursting out of the forest through the breach left by the guys that tripped the mine and trying to fan out. Figuring there wouldn't be further mines there, they try to run and maybe fire off a few shot to suppress whatever defenders we might have sent. We're kind of jolted by the shock of seeing them, but instead of locking up, we pull our triggers. Bullets hit the target, at least one of them goes through face (so much for running forward while crouching) and he drops like a track suited sack of potatoes. My comrades hit their targets too – it's almost impossible not to at this range. With no grenades and training that even militias would find to be subpar, these guys had no chance.

And while the bandits laid dead or dying, we didn't go without a scratch, either. Marko was checking on the third guy who got his helmet grazed by a bullet. I wanted to check on him – he was alive, at least – but the sergeant radioed for at least one of us to get back to the front. So while I hurried back to the front, Marko was left to look after our dizzy comrade and for more signs of life in the forest. When I fell back into my firing position I noticed that the things were somewhat worse than they were when we left. The bandits had advanced forward and they numerical superiority was

making itself felt through the volume of bullets that they were putting out. I think I heard someone cry out over the radio before sarge silenced the channel.

This tense shootout went on for some time, with no side getting a real upper hand. I mean, we probably got a pair of them, but we weren't breaking them as we hoped. Eventually – and owing more to the fact that we were fresh from primary training – ammo was starting to run out. It was especially poignant for me, because I had sprayed the guys back at the forest. Still, they should also be running out of bullets, since they weren't better shots than us (takes little skills to do a drive -by).

And then our luck changed. Someone new got on the MG and started spraying Sonia's position. And after some time he turned his attention to us, spraying the width of the battlefield with MG fire a few times. We would only answer with blind fire and I started hearing "I'm out!" over the radio as people started switching for their side arms. Suddenly the MG started spraying the sniper's nest again and I peered over my cover.

The bandits were taking this as a chance to charge us. This probably wasn't that smart, but those were not military minds and they basically didn't have anything else to do. They were running and using the last of their rifle ammo to suppress our positions. Some were already firing pistols while others took out knives. Hastily, I brought my Raptor to try and kill some of them – and my magazine emptied after ten bullets. Shit. Leaving the rifle to just lay there I pulled out my pistol.

And then I saw the guy charging at me. His sneakers were pounding turf as he charged with his shaven head held low. He held a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. As soon as he noticed me peak up, he emptied the magazine at me. Thankfully, running and shooting one hand doesn't make one a crack shot. But by the time I raised my head again, he had already thrown away the gun and taken the knife in his right. Then I fired.

As a bandit, he probably started his martial career in street fights, beating other guys up. He then probably moved to knives, which he might have had time to master before joining up with a bigger gang and graduating with guns. He had a history of violence and was used to killing people at arms. Even with my training, he would probably kill me. After all, he was more muscular than me too, a feat that probably helped him out in a dark alley once or twice.

The difference was that alley fights probably didn't happen after a protracted fire fight. And he definitely didn't win any with three bullets in him. Never the less, he was still going from the momentum and the adrenalin when he jumped at me. I tried rolling away, but he still got me somewhat – the knife slid down the side of my armor. We fell next to each other. I kicked and tried pistol whipping him. I managed to get hit him in the temple as he searched for the knife. But that gave time to get my pistol into an advantageous position.

I don't like to admit it, but I closed my eyes before firing into his face.

I didn't spend much time examining his final death spasms when I opened my eyes again. This wasn't something I wanted to see – in retrospect, the whole thing was somewhat irresponsible and unprofessional of me – as I turned to see how others were faring. Someone rose after defeating his or her thug – and got an MG bullet in the back for the trouble. Nearby, a desperate fight was going as one of my Nod fellows was trying to steer a knife away from his chest. I rolled on sight, steadied my pistol with both hands and fire. Luckily enough, a bullet shattered the bandit's shoulder while the stray ones didn't seem to hit anyone. I changed my mag while the trooper I saved used the now useless knife to stab the assailant – and a few too many times than it was strictly necessary.

I was ascertain the situation on our battle line when I heard a different, more familiar MG. Cautiously I raised my head to see what was happening at the other end of a clearing – and I saw the banding MG gunner fall as the jeep he was behind crumpled under fire. Soon, I saw the first buggy appear, still loaded with familiar looking troops. The cavalry had arrived.


End file.
